If Your Heart Cannot Love
by Satiah
Summary: "What good is living forever if your heart cannot love?" That's what he asked me. I don't remember who he was, exactly, but I do know that he didn't know a thing about true art. No pairing.


Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

I remember a time from so very long ago when I was asked a simple question by a boy whom I can no longer recall. He asked me this:

"What good is living forever if your heart cannot love?"

It was ridiculous, that question, but never was it really forgotten.

At the time, I know I was rather rude with my retort. Still young and obsessed with the concept of everlasting art—yes, I _have_ learned how best to balance art and life through the centuries—I was greatly offended by the inquiry. It was, in effect, an unfavorable critique of my most precious artwork, something I could not allow. I venomously spat out a reply and a curse, causing my questioner to retreat with young, wide eyes. I still cannot remember his face, or his voice—all I see is a vague shadow of him—no matter how hard I try.

It has been much too long since I last allowed myself to think of that young child and his obnoxious question. As it turned out, he grew into a man and entered an organization I knew well. Perhaps we even worked together. But only for a brief time.

All those many years ago, the pain which should have been caused by his sudden loss affected me little. I, in my perfectly created body, could feel no such thing as human grief or despair. I had learned to lock away any emotional memory that I happened to possess—and there were quite a few—and so it was that I never thought of him until very recently, when a whisper of a question managed to leak into my thoughts. Since then, it seems, the question he once asked me is all that I _can_ think about. But, no matter how hard I try, I still cannot identify the face or the voice of the one who had posed it.

Returning back to my story, or initial memory, rather…I seethed for days in an untamable rage after being questioned so. Oh, how I hated that insolent pup! I hated him with a furious passion akin to that of a wildfire: fierce, destructive, consuming everything in its wrathful path. I could have killed him in an instant, had he been stupid enough to approach me again after daring to criticize my artwork in such a way! He kept his distance, however—smart lad, I'll give him that—and lived to argue with me on other similar issues.

(Hmm. Perhaps I was too quick to give him credit for his intellect.)

He wasn't bright, that one, but he knew himself well. He just didn't have a very good talent for assessing the strength of his opponents. Many a times I thought he would die for lack of proper battle preparation. But he always pulled through somehow. He was too obnoxious to die an embarrassing death that could be directly linked to his propensity for making mindless errors, I suppose. (Yes, he was certainly obnoxious. I remember that about him…he had a particular talent for remaining permanently on my bad side.)

Alas, it really is quite easy to become distracted by memories when you sit down to contemplate them! The thing about eternal life is that time, technology, and people change so dramatically, the newness of it all often overwhelms one's dusty old memories…and thus the past lies quietly within the recesses of one's mind, quite thoroughly forgotten. Even when resurrected from its dusty grave, the past still refuses to come back whole. I still cannot see that boy's face; I cannot hear his voice; cannot remember him in full.

Where was I? Oh, yes. After running away and leaving me to seethe in the results of my infamous temper, the boy-turned-man found himself in the midst of battle. It would prove to be his last, as he committed suicide out of distress, if I do recall correctly. He only did a half-assed job of it, though: He thought he'd kill three that day, including his opponent and one observer, but the only one who actually expired was himself.

Since then, I left Akatsuki—I cannot remember why—to travel the world. See, _I_ never died. But someone sure had done a number on my replacement heart! (Oh, don't look at me like that. Did that purple tube with the strange potato-like growths on it _really_ look like a heart to you? Honestly! I _was_ human once!)

Continuing on, I traveled the world, looking at the various so-called "artworks" of the day. I have since developed a deep respect for my fellow artists, even if they remain ignorant of what True Art really is.

(Mine is still superior.)

I'm still here, aren't I? That should be testament enough to the truth of my declaration! I have witnessed the creation of "art" in dance, song, drum, paint, oil, marble, clay—and again I see that shadow I cannot remember! The name that still eludes, the face that continually escapes, the memory forever lost. And even now, as I try so hard to place an identity with that person, his question still presents itself clearly in my mind.

"What good is living forever if your heart cannot love?"


End file.
